


The Call

by MarirnersRevenge



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Modern AU, established relationships - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:49:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27800293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarirnersRevenge/pseuds/MarirnersRevenge
Summary: Her mind slowly reworks itself. Rebuilding places and memories from the empty lots and closed buildings, the newly built apartments that promised luxury housing and gated communities. With each turn of the car, her mind guts itself out until all she sees are the ghosts of memories floating in the spaces left behind.
Relationships: Abigail Roberts Marston/John Marston, Tilly Jackson/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	The Call

The ringing of her phone woke her.

She reaches for it blindly, hand smacking the bedside table as she searches. She feels the smooth surface of the screen beneath her finger tips and grabs it, dragging it toward her as she squints against the light.

“Who is it?” the man beside her asks, an annoyed grunt leaving him as he releases his hold on her waist.

She vaguely recognized the number displayed, her tired mind slowly catching up as she answered.

“Hello?”

“Tilly? Hey, it’s Abigail.”

Abigail? It had been years since she heard her voice. Her mind arches back to the days they hung out together. To the late night talks and runs to Taco Bell, music blaring loudly from her old beat up Toyota as they sped down the empty roads. They had drifted apart after they had graduated, her career pulling across the country while Abigail stayed behind in their hometown. She tried to keep in touch over Facebook, liking and commenting on her photos and posts. She knew Abigail had gotten married to her high school sweetheart, a mutual friend, John. She couldn’t make it to the wedding, sending them a card and a gift through the mail. But she couldn’t remember the last time they had actually spoken on the phone. 

“Oh, hey.”

“I’m sorry to wake you. Do you have a minute?”

Tilly glances at her alarm clock, the neon green lights flashing 2:00 am. It’s late but she knows she wouldn’t call her unless she had a reason. 

“No, it’s ok. What’s up?”

Abigail takes a shaky breath and releases it slowly, the feedback from the receiver crackling in Tilly’s ear as she holds the phone slightly away. 

“He’s- I-...”

Her voice is wet, thick as she tries to speak again but nothing comes out. A growing sense of unease settles in Tilly’s stomach. She sits upright, blanket pooling around her waist. Her fingers grip her phone tightly as she stares out into the darkness of her room. 

“Abigail?”

“John’s dead.”

Everything comes to a stand still. The news settled on her mind like a weight as she processes the words. Abigail’s voice is still coming through her phone, muffled by the buzzing in her ears.

“-can you tell, Arthur? I-I can’t. I can’t tell him It’s- if you could… _please.”_

“Yeah, I-“ she swallows, her throat suddenly dry, “yeah.”

The call ends, her phone still illuminating the darkness, the time reading 2:03 am. 

“Mattie?”

“John’s dead.”

Her screen goes black.

* * *

She stares out the window of the plane watching the workers on the tarmac. They moved in complex patterns reminding her of ants. She wondered if that’s what they thought of themselves as they worked. A warm hand presses against her thigh and she hums, turning her head slightly, the view from the window blurring. 

“You ok?”

Was she? Since the call she hadn’t slept well. She had stayed up that night and the next few nights staring listlessly at her TV as Netflix played episode after episode. She didn’t know what she watched, the images blurring together as her mind echoed the same phrase over and over.

 _John’s dead._ John’s _dead. John’s_ dead. Sometimes, Arthur would join her on the couch, the blue light framing his profile. His side pressed against hers, heat seeping into her cold form. They would sit in silence, eyes focused on the tv in front of them. 

She shook her head, turning to look at Arthur, who watched her with concern. His face flushes in embarrassment as he realizes the question he asked.

“Sorry, that was a dumb question.”

His hand leaves her knee and rubs against the back of his neck, his hair sticking up with each pass. It was a dumb question but one that she knows she has asked before. She wouldn’t fault him for it. Death rarely elicits eloquence. She reaches for his hand, softly taking it away from his head and holding it in hers as she feels the plane shudder.

“I should be asking you that,” she answers instead, rubbing her thumb across his knuckles, “He was your brother.”

He sighs, eyes drifting ahead towards the now lit seatbelt sign.

“I- he was…,” he lapsed into silence, eyes closing as his head tips back, thunking gently against the top of his seat.

“Yeah,” she answered softly, leaning her head against his shoulder as the overhead speakers crackle to life.

* * *

John had been a force of nature.

She remembers the first time she had met him was at a party Abigail had dragged her to. The summer’s heat pressed against her skin as she stood on the edge of the crowd. The music thrummed through her, vibrating the lukewarm beer in her cup as she sways to the beat. 

She wants to say that the way she met him was profound. Like he was holding court somewhere and the party revolved around him. Lively debates on philosophy or even movies or art. 

No, the way she met him is because he was standing on the roof, his friends egging him on to jump into the pool. He was standing on the edge, arms outstretched at his sides, his head tipped back. He let out a mighty crow that brings some of the party goers to a stop, staring as he backs up and takes a running leap. He soars through the air, long arms curling around his even longer legs. 

He barely makes it.

He hits the pool, a foot or two away from the edge, water splashing up and on the people still standing close by.

Some have turned away, resuming their conversations. Others wait with bated breath, wondering if he had made it. His head breaks the surface of the water, his arms going over his head, fists held high, a lopsided grin on his face.

She could hear Abigail’s voice yelling at him as he laughed, hauling himself out of the pool. He wipes the water from his face, long hair plastered to his head like a helmet, shirt and pants rapidly dripping water onto the concrete. A large puddle forming around his bare feet. 

* * *

Her hometown was exactly as she remembered it, except not.

Her mind slowly reworks itself. Rebuilding places and memories from the empty lots and closed buildings, the newly built apartments that promised luxury housing and gated communities. With each turn of the car, her mind guts itself out until all she sees are the ghosts of memories floating in the spaces left behind.

Their car turned onto the drive of Abigail’s house as the sun was starting to reach its zenith. It was a one story house that sat on a large stretch of land, the areas around them empty and overgrown. Unused pipes sticking up from the left behind foundations like the bones of some great beast. She greeted them outside, arms reaching from them as they approached. A part of Tilly was happy to see her friend. To be in her presence again but not like this. 

Never like this. 

She guided them through the house, pictures and paintings hanging from the walls, resting on mantles. Her voice was soft and tired as she talked, words filling the air to combat the silence as she asked them of their flight and ride over. That they were the first guests to arrive. A quiet child sits on the couch, eyes watching them as they pass through. The bright light of the midday sun framed him and for a second, she saw it. Sees him. The resemblance to his father is uncanny. She had only seen pictures of him online, Abigail’s smiling face next to his gap toothed one. But here in the light of the living room- the yellow brightness filling the space, washing out the shadows of her mind- was John. Face focused in concentration as he tries and fails to be serious for just one moment. Dark brown eyes glittering with mirth as he held in a laugh. 

Arthur’s hand finds hers, his shoulders stiff. 

She squeezes it, grounding herself. 

* * *

The last of the guests had left leaving the house feeling empty. She could see Arthur through the archway of the kitchen. He had removed his jacket and sat on the floor of the living room next to Abigail’s son, Jack. He was drawing a picture, pencil slowly tracing over the paper beneath his fingertips. The little boy watched with awe as the drawing came to life, a shy smile blooming across his face. Arthur finishes, handing the drawing over to Jack who promptly starts grabbing crayons to color it. He looks up at her through the doorway, a small smile on his face and the weight on her heart lifts. 

She moves through the kitchen to the backdoor, sunlight pouring in through the plastic blinds. It reflects off of the pool, scattering prisms of light across the surface. Abigail sits on the edge, feet dangling. Tilly opens the door and walks towards her. She pulls off her shoes and dips her feet into the sun warmed water.

“You know, John and I had actually broken up for a bit,” Abigail said after a while, voice soft. Her eyes were dry, staring into the blue depths as if it held some hidden meaning. Tilly looks at her in surprise, eyes widening as she takes in what she said.

“Really?”

“Yeah, it was, uh, I would say right around the time you had left after we graduated. I had wanted to explore, go on a tour of the world. But then I found out that I was pregnant.” 

She falls silent, slowly lifting her foot up, watching the water displace itself. 

“How come you didn’t say anything?”

Abigail shrugs, eyes still trained on the water sliding off her raised foot, the dark grey shawl around her shoulders slipping down to her arms. 

“I was embarrassed, angry. When I had told him, the look on his face,” she shakes her head, turning her head away from the water. “He was so scared. So sure that he would become his father. So he pushed me away. And I let him.”

She looks at Tilly, eyes sad, “For a long time, I hated him but we kept the lie going.”

She thinks back to all the posts and photos of a smiling Abigail, hand placed on her growing stomach. The excited comments congratulating her and John on their baby boy. All that time she had been alone. Tilly’s mind searches back, a memory bubbling to the surface. 

John had been quiet when he came to visit them. Eyes looking over their house, cataloguing its features and the area that surrounded it. He had called them the day before saying he was in town and wanted to see the new place. At the time they had both thought it was strange that John was without Abigail. They were always together, even when they were mad. He made an excuse for her, saying she was at home with the baby but sends her love. Despite that she had been happy to see him and for Arthur to connect more. 

It always amazed her how different Arthur and John were. Arthur was tall and imposing. He hid himself away behind bravado. A shroud that covered the soft nature of his personality. The vulnerability that he only has shown to her and ones he trusts. John was the very opposite. Loud as a firecracker with just as short as a fuse. He was tall like Arthur but wiry. Thin as a board with long brown hair. While Arthur hid himself away, John wore his heart on his sleeve. For better or for worse.

The brothers had never fully gotten along. Even when they were all together it had always devolved into John taking a joke too far and Arthur getting pissed off at him. Sometimes they were happy, joking around with each other as if Arthur didn’t threaten to toss John over a bridge an hour before. It was hard to imagine that they barely talked. Calling each other for birthdays or out of the blue and then nothing for weeks or months on end. John and Arthur both didn’t have any social media accounts. Their lives entirely private, save for the pictures and posts she or Abigail would make about them. 

He had stayed for lunch, filling their small backyard with laughter and stories and promises to return soon with Abigail and their son in tow. But like many things in adulthood, it became a game of phone tag. Things never synced up again and he had fallen back into the old routine of calling Arthur every few weeks or sending a text or picture. 

“Did...did Arthur know? Have you told him?” Tilly’s voice is faint, her eyes searching Abigail’s. She had wondered if he had known about this. If maybe he had kept it from her because Abigail had asked him to. It wouldn’t be the first time but he always told her eventually. She knows he does it because of his father. The secrecy built from years and years of hiding his true feelings and actions from manipulation. It had taken years for him to fully open up to her. To be the person he is now but there are still moments. Still habits he can’t leave behind. The hardship of being the first son. 

“No. He would have killed him if he did. And I wouldn’t have this house,” Abigail smiles. It is a shadow of what it used to be but there all the same. She stands up, smoothing out the skirt of her dress as water softly dripped onto the concrete. She turns and walks back into the house leaving Tilly alone beside the pool. The heat of the sun presses down on her and she wishes she never knew.

* * *

He was talking to their- his- father.

Arthur paced the space of the hotel room, phone clutched tightly in his hand. His face was as dark as a thunder cloud, expression set in deep resentment. 

“Would you just-”

She can hear the muffled voice in the empty room. Her eyes followed him as he paced, his fist clenched at his side. 

“Are you fucking serious? Are you kidding me? I swear you say the stupidest shit sometimes. Just because he died and Abigail didn’t tell us how doesn’t mean it’s automatically drugs!”

She looks away, staring out the window.

“No, I didn’t ask. What? Do you want me to just walk up to her and ask while she’s crying how he died?”

He ends the call, tossing the phone onto the small table. She hears it clatter, sliding across the surface before falling over the edge and to the floor. 

* * *

The sun shone through the clouds on the day of the viewing. A soft breeze kicking up the hem of her skirt and the dark curly hair that had escaped her bun. It was the kind of weather you would visit the park in. A picnic blanket slung over your arm, a bag of food in the other. The last vestiges of summer before fall settled in. 

She hated it.

How dare the weather be like this when he couldn’t be around to enjoy it? When everywhere she looks are faces set in mourning. A sea of black the ebbs and flows, breaking apart against the steps of the funeral home. 

She turns away, hands automatically reaching for the lapels of Arthur’s suit, smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles beneath her palms. They hadn’t really spoken in the last few days. A part of her feels bad for not doing so. For not taking the time to make sure he is ok outside of a touch or look of concern she’s given him. To shoulder part of his grief so he can breathe. Her hands move to his tie to straighten it. 

“Are you ready?” 

His voice is soft- concern lacing its undertones- as his hand covers hers gently stopping their movements. Her eyes remain trained on his shirt, the dark purple tie under her fingers. She takes a deep breath, eyes rising to meet his. 

“If I told you I didn’t want to see him. Would that be selfish or cruel?”

She asks instead, eyes falling back to his tie. He is silent, finger tapping an unknown rhythm on the back of her hand. 

“No,” he answers finally, his hand leaving hers to gently cup the side of her neck, pulling her to rest against his chest.

She takes in the scent of his aftershave and closes her eyes.

* * *

It occurred to her after the viewing, after they had driven back to their hotel in silence. After she had turned off the hotel lamps and saw John’s pale face staring out at her in the darkness. His form laid out before her in the space between the bed and the bathroom. The light of the street lamps coming through the gap in the curtain reflecting off of him, turning him a sickly yellowish orange. That she hadn’t cried. 

That they hadn’t shown any emotion besides concern and sadness. She wondered if it was the shock of it. The suddenness in which he was here then gone like a flash of lightning. He deserved mourning, deserved the tears that fell from each eye of friends and family. Coworkers, new and old. That he deserved to have his life grieved and celebrated and raged about to the heavens for taking him away. 

But here she sat, her eyes dry. She willed them to tear. Willed them to express the deep sorrow that fills her. That she knows fills Arthur. She feels the guilt crawl through her again, whispering that he had more reason to grieve than she did. 

You were just an outsider. You were only here because you are with his brother, because you knew Abigail. You were never really friends.

She looks down at her hands, fingers clutching the funeral program as the priest begins to talk. Her eyes trace his smiling face. 

* * *

Tilly silently looks out over the horizon as the sun bathes the sky a golden orange. They had just gotten home, the long week weighing their shoulders down. She felt as if she had aged fifty years but it had only been a week. Time there had seemed to stretch further and further until it reached the point where everything had stopped. Only to start again when they had returned. When they had left the bubble of grief that had encapsulated them. 

They still didn’t know the reason he had died. Didn’t know the lead up to this. Did he suffer? Was he alone? 

Her thoughts go back to Abigail. To the way she had sagged after the funeral in the pew, her son staring wide eyed at all the people that surrounded her. She thinks back to Abigail’s confession. To Arthur’s blank face throughout both services. There was more she could have done to ease his expression, maybe. More she could have done before all of this. Kept better contact. Been more active. Made more of an effort. Something to ease the pain in their hearts.

Her mind spirals and spirals. Twisting on itself over and over, until it had become a jumbled mess of what ifs and maybes. She doesn’t notice Arthur until he kneels in front of her, eyes searching hers as he gently wipes her tears away.

“I’m sorry,” she croaks, her eyelids pushing her tears out with each blink, “I wanted to be there for you and I…”

“I know.”

She scoffs, sniffing indelicately as she wipes her cheeks. 

“You’re just saying that to placate me I know it.”

He shrugs, rising to sit in the empty chair beside her. They watch the sun inch further down the horizon and she closes her eyes, listening to the sound of the evening. Tears still falling.

“How come I haven’t seen you cry?” She whispers eyes still shut, crickets chirping in her ear. 

“I guess,” he sighs, chair creaking under his weight as he shifts, “I guess a part of me had already mourned him. I don’t know if that makes sense.”

It does in its own way. 

They sit in silence, the last of the sun peeking over the horizon before disappearing from sight. 

Here and gone again.

Her eyes slowly open, the last of the tears rolling down her cheeks as she takes his hand.

"I don’t,” she swallows, feeling the muck in throat ease, “I don’t want to be like them.”

Arthur looks at her hand, rubbing his thumb gently across her skin. She allows him the silence to gather his thoughts. 

“I wish I had known,” he finally says, the cracks appearing on the wall he builds inside him. To stem the tide until he can find a quiet place to unleash them. She had often thought that one day the dam would break and flood the village of his heart. Cover them in the emotions he has carried and hidden for the majority of his life. 

“I wish I had known why he didn’t talk to us- talk to me. Why did he hide this? What was the point?” 

He stands dropping her hand as he paces before her, that familiar anger and self loathing rising to the surface. 

“I don’t know,” she whispers her eyes following him as he comes to a stop, his back to her. The evening screams around them and she pushes herself out of her chair.

“If you had known,” she begins, walking toward him, fingers reaching to soothe the tightness, “would you have told me?”

He stays silent, his back rising and falling in a heavy sigh. He keeps his back to her but she sees the shake of his head. 

“I would have spared you the knowledge.”

“That sounds like what he did.”

They fall silent again, her head coming to rest on his back, feeling the planes slowly relax under her touch. 

“Please,” is all she whispers. 

It is a word that can mean so many things. So much weight on such a little word. But he knows what she means. His thoughts harkening back to her quiet plea.

_I don’t want to be like them._

He hadn’t thought of it before, she can tell, the way he hides things from her. The silence that follows a revelation, her hands feeling cold as she learns the truth. In some ways she is happy for his care, for his deflection of any negativity that would plague her. He knows she is a worrier, plagued by anxiety that creeps through her. Hiding in the corners of her mind as it waits for its chance to slide into view. But a small part of her resents that. Dislikes the lack of knowledge, the ignorance she feels when he finally comes to her. She knows, she knows, that she doesn’t need to know everything but sometimes she wishes she did.

“I’ll try for you. You know I will.”

And she knows. She knows he will make good on any promise he makes to her. It will be slow, painfully so, but he will do it for her. She makes sure that she never uses the power she has over him. It had scared her at first. The way he threw his heart into her hands, trusting her with it. His need for love so heartbreakingly apparent that he gave her it fully and freely. She wonders if he knows that he has that same power over her? 

He steps away, turning to face her. His hands come up, cupping her face as he kisses her, the unease in her heart lessening. She knows there will be more conversations like this. More instances where she will quietly remind him. 

The cicadas begin to sing, the last vestiges of the summer heat giving way to the cool of the night. And she is reminded of another time like this so long ago. The first night she had met John, she had met Arthur as well. Their lives intertwining together like the branches of trees. Inexplicably connected, John’s presence feeling like an echo. Rippling through their lives in big waves, in small ones. Countless instances of how he touches every part even when he wasn’t there. She isn’t sure if they will ever know what really happened. If she even wants to know. It will just be one of those events that will plague them. Fading with time until it becomes this unknown feeling that something has happened but they can’t quite put their finger on it. In some ways she _hates_ John for leaving them like this. So many unanswered questions about his life, before and after, his visit. 

In the softness of the dark, she can feel the moment Arthur let’s go. The tide of his emotions flowing out in a steady stream. She holds him through it, steady as he was, as he is. Her own tears wetting his shirt as she cries with him, for him. For Abigail. For Jack. For John. Her arms wrap around his torso, his arms wrapping around her shoulders. They stay like that as the night stretches out around them.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was based on an experience I had two months ago when a good friend had died unexpectedly. I had a hard time expressing the grief at his passing into words. At the time I was in school and I had a long fiction story due. I had stared at my computer screen erasing and rewriting bits of various things but I couldn't focus on them long enough to make it coherent. The day after the funeral, after everyone had gone home, I sat down and began to write about the event. The words coming easier and easier with each sentence. Ostensibly this is a work of fiction but the feelings and thoughts are mine. They are how I felt during and after and even now.
> 
> There are parts in this story that I have experienced:
> 
> The call I had received from his best friend in the middle of the night. I had to call the others in her stead because she was unable to do so. I do not blame her for it. Her childhood friend had just died.
> 
> The inability of myself and his best friend to walk into the room. 
> 
> I did see the face of my friend in the darkness of my hallway. The way he looked when I had seen him at the viewing.
> 
> The way I felt, seemingly out of place. I felt that others had more right to be there than me who had only met him 9 years ago. The doubt. 
> 
> This story is one born from grief and recovery.


End file.
